dad

dad, 

i have this memory of when i was young. it was the end of the school day, a friday so everyone was really excited to go home. it was autumn so all of the halloween specials were running on the family channel and hocus pocus was going to be on at eight. everyone's parents came to pick them up from the playground, and i was keeping lookout for you on top of the big yellow slide. i wasn't thinking about hocus pocus, because you coming for me wasn't like them. it was a special occasion that could only be rivaled by the likes of a christmas morning. only unlike santa you were real. 

when i saw you, you were already on your way. you stood taller than the rest (a fact that i always took way too much pride in) and without missing a beat, i slid down. even though the trip was no longer that a few seconds at most, that was still time that was in the way, time that could grow and stall me from getting to the bottom. but i did. 

only you were never there.

i've heard that's a thing that can happen. when you dream of something so much that your mind actually starts to believe it as a memory, instead of knowing it's a comfortable illusion. every time was a cruel reminder that the seconds between us—from the top to the bottom of that stupid slide—were actually multiplied by several cities, probably full of those same slides, and a part time job that masqueraded as a sunday phone call.

honestly, it's kind of endearing that there's still someone who thinks you're going to be at the bottom of the slide when she finally gets to the bottom, only unlike us, she's a lot shorter. it's cute. 

like believing in santa claus. 

i guess i'm grateful that i got used to that feeling young. and don't worry, it wasn't like it was a searing pain or anything, nothing more than a dull ache that made itself a home among the rest of the growing pains. 

but maybe that's just another illusion.